


The R Word

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Sam, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Schmoop, Submissive/Bottom Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a fantasy that he would like Dean to help him act out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 'R' Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/gifts).



> The whole reason I wrote this fic (and its following timestamps), is because I am sick and tired of seeing "dub-con rape fic". Rape is rape. PERIOD. This situation I presented here? That's the only time, THE ONLY TIME, where you can argue that rape is consensual.... and in this situation? That's what it is: CONSENSUAL. Not dub-con, not non-con, but complete and total con. You could maybe argue Dean was dub-con since he was reluctant to hurt Sam, but.... seriously, rape is rape. I'm sick of seeing fictions that present it as anything but. If you want to write a rape fic, fine, write it! I love some good rape fic. :) But don't try to play it off (unless it's a situation like what I present here, of course) like it's anything but non-con. That's the DEFINITION of rape.  
> ............... /soapbox.
> 
> Part 3 is dedicated to PhoenixDragon bc she wanted Dean angsting something fierce.

“You want me to what?” Dean barked, turning and staring at his brother.

Sam blushed crimson and looked sheepishly at his own feet. Fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt, he said in a meek voice, “ Please don't make me say it twice.”

Sam studied his feet closely, barely daring to look up at his brother. Dean had heard a lot from Sam over the last year and a half since they started this new facet of their relationship. After Dad, Sam hadn't felt in control anymore, and he was starting to learn that maybe Dean hadn't either. Somewhere along the line... things just got... different.

With a great sigh, Dean closed the distance between them and Sam, venturing a glance upward, noticed the smile on his face. “I only want to make sure I heard you right,” he said, calm and gentle like always. Even when they were kids, Dean was always so... soft about things, in a way that Sam never truly appreciated until now. “Something like that, it's pretty serious, Sam. Even for us. I mean, this isn't just a ball-gag you're talking about,” he added with a chuckle. “So, tell me again. You can whisper if you want. I just need to make sure.”

Sam nodded, understanding now: Dean wasn't harassing him or looking for a way to pick on him. Dean was just being safe. There were many fine lines to be found in the dark alleys that their relationship had wandered down and Dean, in true older brother fashion, was always checking and double-checking. He was always safe.

Feeling another blush heat his face, Sam glanced down at where Dean was now reaching and taking his hands. He smiled, took a deep breath, and laced his fingers with Dean's. “I... I want you to rape me,” he whispered into the space between them. “It's just a fantasy, Dean. Role playing... or whatever you wanna call it.”

Maybe if he could make it sound logical, it wouldn't seem like such a big deal. Really, who wanted to be  _raped_? Dean had to know Sam was a sick fuck, but this... this was a whole new level of freak.

Dean nodded, squeezing Sam's fingers. “Alright,” Dean said quietly, “I understand.” He ducked his head into Sam's field of vision and held his gaze. “It's fine, Sam. Just... give me a little while to think it over, okay?”

Sam almost collapsed. In his head a million voices had told him he was  _wrong_ ,  _fucked up_ , _sick_ ,  _weird,_ and all of them had sounded like Dean. But this was Dean, in the flesh, telling him it was okay. He reached out and hugged his older brother tightly, feeling vulnerable in a way he never thought possible, especially with someone he spent practically his whole life with. He could feel Dean nodding against his shoulder, as if he'd heard his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Sam told Dean his fantasy on Tuesday. It was now Friday of that same week and nothing had happened. Well, sure they'd had sex – several times, in fact – and Sam had forgotten to fill the gas tank up when he went to the library on Thursday, so he was currently sitting opposite Dean in the diner of his choosing and watching him eat while Sam's stomach growled loudly.

Dean could be a dick about it sometimes. It wasn't just a punishment... it was damn near torturous the things he would do. Like right now. Sam's stomach was growling loud enough that the waitress had come over and said something to him (to which he _had_  to reply no, thank you). Dean, smug jerk, ate his steak uncharacteristically slow, taking smaller bites than usual and savoring each one while Sam had to sit pretty and watch him without comment. He could speak when spoken to, but that was it. Otherwise, silence.

Dean finally cleaned his plate, sighing indulgently and leaning back against the squeaky, plastic cushion of the dining booth. “Damn,” he said, “That was  _fantastic_.”

The waitress sauntered over with a smile too wide to be sincere and asked, “Can I get you anythin' else, sugar?” There was no 'r' in the word  _sugar_.

Dean smiled back, genuinely, and shook his head. “Just a few minutes to digest, if you don't mind.”

 _Oh, how funny_ , Sam thought angrily.  _Dick_.

In the end, he knew he deserved it. He knew the rules – you borrow the car, you fill 'er up. Sam didn't do it. So now he was being punished.... He kinda wished Dean had just spanked him.

“Sam,” Dean said, fishing in his back pocket for his wallet, “Why don't you go wait for me in the car? I'm gonna use the restroom.”

“Yes, sir.” He couldn't miss the look the waitress gave him when he said it.

He was still fuming inside the Impala, door open to keep himself from overheating, when he saw Dean waltz out of the wide, double-hinged doors carrying a paper bag. Sam's eyes narrowed onto the bag but he said nothing. He knew he couldn't speak in the diner and wasn't sure if the rules still applied now that they were heading back to the motel.

It wasn't until they got back to the motel that Dean finally said something to Sam. They were inside, door locked behind them, and Sam was settling in front of his laptop at the little table currently covered in their research notes, when the paper bag dropped in front of Sam's face.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and, squeezing a little authoritatively, said lowly into his ear, “You don't feed my baby, Sam, and I won't wanna to feed you. Okay?” Sam nodded slowly, not looking up from the tabletop. “Eat slowly.” With a pat on Sam's shoulder, Dean went to watch TV, grabbing a cold beer on his way.

All but ripping the bag open, Sam found a boxed-up chicken Caesar, all the dressings on the side. He glanced over at his brother but, of course, he was engrossed in the television. More to the point, Sam knew he wouldn't accept a thank you. So, Sam did what he always did in these moments; he enjoyed what his master had given him, feeling loved with every bite.

 

* * *

 

It was a week later when Sam got the nerve to bring It up with Dean again.

He also forgot the pie.

His hands were cuffed behind his ankles so that he was bent over double, and Dean was standing behind him, enjoying the view. Sam ached for a touch, anything – talented fingers on his balls, a harsh smack to his cheek, or –  _oh god, if only_  – Dean's cock pressing hard against his hole. The very thought could almost,  _almost_  push Sam over the edge; he was just that turned on. Dean did nothing of the sort though. For the whole night, he had refrained from touching Sam in any private areas. His nipples were tweaked, his neck was bruised with hickeys, but his cock remained untouched. It  _ached_.

He could just barely see Dean's hand pumping himself, but the angle he needed to see it made his head tip to the side too far and he would feel himself loosing balance. Dean liked his little brother limber, which meant Sam wasn't allowed to bend his knees when he was in this position – it was not an easy position to hold. But, once in a while, he would get a peek through his knees and see Dean bucking into his own hand. It was maddening. Sam almost wanted to ask if he could be allowed to suck him off. Anything was better than just standing there like some pretty little doll.

With a few telling sounds and then a deep, desperate moan, Dean came all over Sam's rear. He could feel the warmth hit his tailbone and ass, then slowly, teasingly start to trickle down. One such trickle started to move down the crack of Sam's ass, making his skin tingle and his dick twitch with need. It oozed over his hole, mocking Sam's own desperate desire to just get  _fucked_  already.

Suddenly Dean was bending down behind him, hands bumping into Sam's, and the cuffs were gone. He swayed a bit but Dean's hands caught him and held him steady. He didn't let Sam stand up though. With a gentle nudge, Dean coaxed Sam into a kneeling position, knees parted wide. He could still feel the cum sliding down his thighs, over his sack and, worst of all, his hole. Then a hot, heavy breath joined the feeling and...

“Oh fuck!” Sam gasped, hands clenching against the threadbare carpet.

Dean's tongue pressed tight against his entrance, licking his own come from Sam's skin. Sam moaned loudly, the sounds getting stuck at the back of his throat: desperate, needy little noises. His hips rocked back against Dean's tongue, his cock hanging heavily between his thighs. He was so close... so close.

Dean ran tickling fingers up the inner side of Sam's thigh and rubbed at his balls, mumbling against his tailbone as he did so. “Come for me, Sammy.”

He did, the rush of relief almost too much to bear as he shot all over the carpet.

Sam was boneless after the last of his orgasm faded into a soft, comfortable warmth. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's middle and hugged him tightly, chest snug against Sam's back. Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, the elder Winchester said they should go get cleaned up and Sam followed, unquestioningly.

They took a shower in companionable silence, washing each other and enjoying the occasional, post-coital act of affection. Sam reminded Dean that he was still sorry about forgetting the pie with a quick, albeit rather cramped, blow-job. Dean showed Sam how much he was forgiven by allowing him to cuddle as they drifted to sleep.

Sam had wanted to ask after they both came, and he had wanted to ask in the shower. Now that both he and Dean were curled up in bed, limbs tangled and breathing synchronized, he thought maybe it was best he didn't ask. Dean probably wasn't comfortable with it. He loved Sam (and Sam loved him, too, of course) and he wanted nothing more than to make Sam happy, but there were things that even Dean had trouble with sometimes – things that, to Sam, seemed really insignificant and unworthy of such fretting over. Once, when Dean had paddled him one too many times and broken the skin, Sam couldn't get him to pick up any instrument – whip, crop, or paddle – for almost three whole months. Even though Sam hadn't really been that hurt and hadn't even needed to use their safeword, Dean had been so broken up over it. So how could Sam expect Dean to be okay with something as violent as rape?

“Dean?” Sam ventured, whisper loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“Hmmm?”

Sam bit his lip: maybe he really should just leave it alone.

“I...I was wondering...” He hesitated, still a little unsure of himself. But, when Dean gave him a playful nudge and told him to get on with it, he was falling asleep, Sam knew he just had to know. It was better to ask now and know that Dean wasn't okay with it than to spend the next who-knows-how-long confused.

“Well,” Sam said with a little more finality, “I was wondering if you had given any more though to... yknow... that  _thing_ I mentioned?”

The shift in Dean's demeanor was physical. “You mean the rape fantasy?”

Sam almost flinched – there was something inherently wrong in saying it out loud, a bit like that I-word that neither one of them dared ever even think about – but he nodded just the same, determined to get a straight answer.

“I dunno, Sam. That's... that's just...”

“It's okay if you don't want to,” Sam said in a rush, “I'm just asking because I wanted to know. But if you're not comfortable with it, Dean, just say so. It's alright.” His fingers clenched, instinctively, at the bed sheet they shared, as if it would protect him from an onslaught of rejection.

“I know,” Dean said, “It's okay, Sam. I'm just not sure.... I mean,  _rape_ , Sam.” Tightening his arm around him, Dean pressed his mouth to the younger man's brow. “I just need some time to think about it, okay?”

With a heavy feeling in his chest, Sam nodded. He would let it go. Dean wasn't comfortable with it and, in the end, Sam was okay with that. It was one little fantasy, after all. It wasn't like Dean was rejecting him outright, or even rejecting Sam's wanting to do such a thing – Dean just wasn't comfortable with it and Sam wasn't about to make him do anything he wasn't comfortable with.

 

* * *

 

It had been three months since Sam first told Dean of his fantasy and, with the exception of the one time Sam brought it up after that, the two boys never spoke of it. They carried on in their usual way, hunting monsters, the family business, having sex: the usual.

Sam was just falling asleep when the motel room door opened up. Dean had gone out to a bar earlier in the evening and Sam expected that he would be home later, but this seemed a bit too early. Not only that, but it wasn't a key opening the door... it was being picked open.

Sam held himself very still, mind cataloging available weapons within arm's reach and coming up with only the bed-side lamp. Assuming it was just a robber, though, Sam could easily overpower him. If it were a monster... well, Sam would just have to wait and see.

It was quiet after the door clicked closed, the intruder's footsteps falling silently on the carpet. Sam strained to hear but he couldn't. This was no crook. This had to be something worse.

A weight fell onto Sam then, straddling his middle and pressing him into the mattress. His arms flailed up and out, struggling, but his efforts ceased quickly when the heavy, unmistakable feeling of a gun barrel pressed against his forehead. Sam let his hands hang in the air complacently, hands up in submission, and tried to squint into the darkness to see who was above him.

A dark figure loomed in his vision, the head of it growing closer and closer until Sam could feel the air around his face displace and warm breath tickle his ear. The scent of engine grease, leather and Head&Shoulders filled Sam's breath and he knew – _Dean_.

“Now, listen closely,” Dean said, his voice low and growling, pressing the barrel with bruising force against Sam's brow. “You are going to stay very,  _very_ quiet. No one is going to help you. You are going to do exactly as I say or I'm going to kill you.” Another aching nudge of the gun had Sam turning his head in an attempt to escape it. “Understand me?”

Sam nodded very slowly.

“Good,” he said, getting up off Sam's chest, “Now roll over, hands and knees.”

Sam's mind flew through a dozen different ideas: shape-shifter? Skin-walker? Possession? Maybe Dean just got too drunk? He didn't smell like he'd been in a bar. If anything he smelled like he always did. Had Sam done something wrong? He didn't think he had.

“I said now!”

Sam turned over quickly, kicking the covers as he went, and assumed the position. He heart hammered in his chest as he tried to come up with some explanation. He muttered the name of Christ under his breath just as Dean switched the bed-side lamp on, bathing them in a dim glow.

Dean gave him a harsh, quizzical look but didn't flinch. “What the fuck kinda mumbo-jumbo you talking about? I said be quiet.” He smacked Sam hard across the face with his free hand. Sam shook his head in apology and just watched the blankets beneath him, trying to calm his breathing.

The mattress dipped as his older brother climbed up onto it behind him, and Sam heard the distinct sound of a zipper being pulled down. Without warning, Sam's sweats were yanked down, pooling around his knees, and his legs were pushed wider apart. There was some movement behind him, but Sam didn't look. He couldn't help the startled jerk of his body as two cold hands gripped the flesh of his ass cheeks and pulled them apart. Humility brought a shamed flush to Sam's neck, creeping up to his face,and he hung his head in submission.

Sam felt a puff of breath against his bare ass and then the loud sound of someone spitting, accompanied by the wet, sticky feeling on his hole. He just managed to hold back the knee-jerk reaction of his body to pull away from the sudden wetness.

Then pain.

One finger was never a problem for Sam. It felt weird sometimes, sure, but it was never painful, and Dean was always a gentle-enough person when it came to penetration. However, there had always been lube involved in those circumstances. This was, for all intents and purposes, dry. Spit was not adequate lubrication. This hurt.

Sam's fingers twisted in the sheets as he gritted his teeth and moaned, fighting through the pain. It hurt like three fingers but he could tell it was only one. It skewered him, pressing in further than it felt like it could go. His body resisted and he willed it to yield; it would only hurt more if he continued fighting it.

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam groaned through his teeth. “That hurts!”

“Shut up.”

The finger moved away and Sam gasped in breath he had forgotten to take. His lungs ached and his abdomen hurt from clenching. His rear burned but he would live.

“Dean, what are--”

“I said shut the fuck up!” A harsh smack to the back of Sam's head had him ducking down against the mattress, whimpering. He was tempted to say okay, okay, but thought better of it at the last second. The throbbing pain in his head was a good deterrent. Sam just wished he knew what he had done wrong... he had been so well behaved today. Dean had only needed to spank him once for speaking out of turn.

There was a rustling behind him again and, chancing a quick glance back, he saw Dean fiddling with something in his hands but Sam's own leg obscured it from view. The sound of a bottle cap being snapped open filled the silence and Sam could hear the distinct noise of lube  _splurt_ ing out. Dean moaned softly and, still looking back, Sam could see his hand working over what was most likely his cock – Sam couldn't really see for sure since his leg was in the way – and it made Sam's breath hitch in his chest. Warmth spread through Sam's groin in a Pavlovian response.

He watched as Dean scooted closer, one tacky hand reaching out and gripping Sam's hip to hold him in place. Sam looked away then, taking a deep,  _deep_  breath and trying to calm himself. Dean's weight settled across his back, displacing the air and warming Sam's skin through his shirt, and Sam felt his sticky, lubed-up cock press tight against his hole. He shrank away from it, hips inching forward of their own accord. Then Sam felt breath against his ear as Dean whispered to him.

“Use the Word,” he said, hand squeezing Sam's hip reassuringly, “if you need to.”

They stayed like that, motionless, for a long, drawn-out moment while Sam put his thoughts together. Then, with another deep breath, Sam nodded his head, and Dean pushed in.

“Oh  _god_ ,” Sam gasped, gritting his teeth hard enough to feel them grind into each other.  _Say it, say the Word. Just say it and stop it now_. The safeword was like a mantra through his head, just that close to being said aloud, as he tried to breathe through the sensation. The pain was excruciating; it spread like wildfire through his nerves and made his very fingertips hurt.

Dean groaned behind him, “ _Fuck..._  you are  _tight_.” He punctuated his sentence with a firm smack to Sam's rump, but Sam hardly felt it; his mind was too focused on the unwanted flesh pushing into a space that was not made for such things. Dean was too big and Sam's hole was too small and it just... it wouldn't fit. It  _couldn't_ , if the pain was any indication.

Broken, crackling noises escaped Sam's mouth unbeknownst to him. He was only vaguely aware of them through the pain-haze filling his mind, only slightly aware of the way it sounded like his vocal cords were pulled taught and being strummed like a violin... except, with a splintered bow. His nails clawed at the fabric of the bedsheets, twisting them and almost ripping through the worn threads.

“Can't--” Sam yelped through his teeth, “Won't fit. S-stop--”

“What don't you get,” Dean said, thrusting impossibly further with each word, “about shut. The fuck. Up?”

Sam bit the pillow in front of him in an effort to drown out his screams; he could do this. If Dean was doing this, then he must have some kind of faith in Sam. And Sam wasn't about to let his brother down.

Finally bottoming out, Dean let loose a deep guttural sigh, and Sam was given a moment's reprieve to breathe and try to will his body to relax. He couldn't seem to, though. His hole quivered and clenched angrily, insides insisting on pushing at the foreign object.

Dean's hand was rubbing slow, placating circles into the small of Sam's back. For a moment Sam thought it was Dean being kind and stopping, saying he was sorry... he should have known better. He became aware of the soft whispers Dean was chanting, hips still rocking slowly forward without actually pulling himself from Sam's tight warmth.

“Fucking tight,” he was saying, “Little slut's gonna take it all, just like this... Fuck.” The sinful words kind of turned Sam on.

Then Dean started moving again.

And Sam almost screamed. The wordless sound felt like broken glass in his throat and his hole burned anew with Dean's shallow thrusts, but it felt wetter – which Sam was sure couldn't be a good thing, but he couldn't seem to mind really – and he tried to just go with it, breathing in deep and blowing out in big puffs. With every twist or dip in Dean's angle, Sam yelped and hugged the pillow tighter, safeword dancing on the tip of his tongue. Nothing in all the months they had been doing this kind of shit, nothing had  _ever_ hurt so much. Despite it, Sam still willed himself to relax; he could endure.

The pop of the cap broke through Sam's strangled thoughts of  _can'tfit-won'tfit-neverfit_  and he felt the sticky, cool fluid drop onto the skin of his crack, working into the throbbing area where Dean's cock was buried within him. It stung like a million razors, but it eased the tight burn and Dean was slick-sliding in and out of Sam quicker now, hips pistoning.

Dean's hands came down next to Sam's elbows, making the mattress dip with his weight, and his thrusts got faster, more demanding. Dean's skin was hot and sweat-damp through Sam's shirt; his breath puffed coolly across Sam's neck, making strands of his hair tickle beneath his ear.

“Ah,” Sam whimpered, biting at his lip, “D-Dean, I can't--” Dean shushed him then, pressing his lips against Sam's ear and letting his tongue slide languidly at the soft spot behind it. Sam shuddered, feeling it from his head all the way down to his toes, cock stirring in response. A soft keen filled the back of his throat as he tried to hold it back.

“Yea,” Dean murmured against his neck, “Like it, don't you?” And Sam couldn't help his own wanton gasp as Dean's lube-tacky fingers wrapped around his half-hard cock, fingers knowing exactly the right spots to caress to get a reaction. Sam's cock pulsed in time with his throbbing asshole and he whined in response. “Getting off on this, aren't you, you little slut. Fucking  _whore._ ” Dean's voice was dangerously low as he taunted Sam. With a twist of his wrist that was harsher than it needed to be, Dean let go of Sam's cock and sat back up, hands gripping the handles of his hipbones again.

As Dean pumped harder and harder into him, Sam had to bite his own fist to keep himself from crying out. It still hurt but now there was the persistent need to get off, making him acutely aware of the times the tip of Dean's cock bumped into his prostate. It made him jolt on the bed, but Dean's hands on his hips kept him in place and at his mercy.

He could hear Dean's ragged breathing, needful moans punctuated by bitten-out 'yea's and 'oh fuck's. “Fucking love it, don't you?” Dean growled, smacking Sam across his sore ass, reigniting the pain-riddled nerve endings, “Goddamn cockslut, desperate for a good fucking. Mmmmm, so tight.”

Sam shook his head and buried his face into the pillow, feeling the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. “No,” he gasped, “No, I'm not.”

“Oh the hell you aren't! Look at you,” Dean said, reaching around and gripping Sam's cock again. “Harder than I left you. Getting off on being pounded up the ass,” and it wasn't a question, “Don't even need a reach around, far as I can see.” He let go of him like Sam's cock was a hot pan, scalding to the touch. Sam whined with the loss.

Gripping Sam's hips hard enough to bruise, Dean pounded into him in earnest. The wet smack of skin to skin contact and the desperate moans of two men filled the stale, recycled air of the room. With one last, drawn out grunt, Dean came, filling Sam's abused hole with everything he had. As the last of his orgasm ran through him, he bent double and rested his head against his little brother's shoulder. He could feel Sam's stuttering gasps against his own ribcage and a pang of guilt sliced through the sex-sated haze of his mind.

“Sammy?” He whispered. But there was no response. “Sam?” He tried again, a little louder, persistent. “Sam, please.”

Sam whimpered and nodded. “I'm okay,” he said, though his tone of voice was anything but.

Dean bit his lip, unconvinced.

“Really, Dean,” Sam said, turning his head a little so Dean could see his shy smile, “I'm okay.”

Dean nodded, pressing a quick peck of a kiss to Sam's shoulders before reaching his hand around and gripping Sam's cock hard. Sam choked on a gasp, wanton moan catching in his throat. With a few well-practiced tugs and twists of his hand, Dean had Sam shooting all over the bedsheets.

“Mmnnn... Definitely okay,” Sam whispered, collapsing into his own wet spot.

He felt Dean's weight shift and move behind and then a soft 'Sorry', meant only for him to hear, before Dean pulled out. Sam couldn't help the strangled noise the action made him cry out, it just hurt so much. More shushes and 'sorry's followed, Dean settling next to him on the damp and sticky mattress, reading out to hold Sam and kiss him.

“You know,” Sam whispered into the air between their noses, “I'm pretty sure rapists don't cuddle with their victims afterward.”

“Eh,” Dean shrugged, nuzzling into Sam's shoulder, “They call it a fantasy for a reason, Sam.”

He nodded slowly. “Right,” he said with a grin, “Because you'd never be caught dead cuddling in reality.”

Dean huffed a laugh and gave Sam a smart smack on his still-sore ass. “Don't get cheeky with me, bitch.”

“No pun intended, jerk?”

“Shut up.”


	2. Worth Its Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time-stamp to The 'R' Word (which you need to read prior to this) in which Sam's faith in his dom is solidified.  
> (This part is PG-13)

At some point Dean convinced Sam's lifeless body to move over to the other mattress, refusing to let Sam sleep in that filthy mess of a bed they'd made. Sam did as he was told, trusting his brother more now than he ever had before, except....

“Dean?” Sam asked, voice thick with exhaustion.

“Shh, go to sleep.” He pulled Sam closer to him, arm snug around Sam's middle and nose buried in the hollow between Sam's shoulder and his neck.

Sam wriggled, turning slightly so he could look at his brother. “No,” he said, “Really. I have a question.”

“Alright,” Dean said.

Sam hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat and half-asked, “You... you didn't use a condom.”

The following silence made Sam's stomach turn. Maybe Dean hadn't thought about that. Oh shit, what if Dean was realizing he made a mistake? What if he'd given Sam something? Sam knew his own sexual escapades were pretty much exclusively Dean-centric – with the occasional thankful damsel – but Dean was a little more free with his partners. It never really raised any qualms between them, each understanding they were the only one to see the truth of each other, and they were always  _safe_.

Laughter broke the silence. Sam almost wanted to hit Dean for laughing at him. It was a valid concern!

“Jeez,” Dean chuckled, running a hand over his face, “Really, Sam? With everything that just happened,  _that's_ what your geeky little brain fixates on? The damn condom?”

“Dean,” Sam whined, “If you just gave me herpes, I'm going to kill –  _it's not fucking funny, Dean!_ ”

“Why do you think I had to wait so long to do this?”

That quieted Sam; he hadn't thought of that. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I got tested," he said, as if it was as obvious as the fact that the sky is blue.  "Had to wait on the results before I could do anything. Figured bareback would be more authentic, yknow?”

Sam stared down at his brother, a warm feeling spreading through his body.

“But now the cops will find DNA.”

Dean chewed at his lip, “It's a fantasy. No cops in my fantasies...” A wry grin split his features. “Well, only the ones with boobs and heels.”

Sam smacked him with a pillow.


	3. Redeemer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This part is NC-17)
> 
> Another time-stamp to The 'R' Word (which you need to read prior to this) in which Dean's faith in his sub is founded.

Dean woke up first the next morning. Usually Sam beat him to it, bringing him coffee and a bagel (or maybe a doughnut if he was extra pleased with something Dean had done). Today, Sam was still out when Dean's eyes opened.

Turning his head, Dean gazed up at his baby brother's peaceful face. Every so often Sam's brow would crease, as if something was upsetting him, but then he'd cluck his tongue softly and settle back into whatever dream he was living through. Dean pulled his hand from beneath his pillow and tucked away a few stray strands of hair from Sam's face. If he were awake, Sam might have mocked him, but Dean had every intention of enjoying this rare instance of solidarity.

Dean might have dozed a few times, eyes opening to Sam's never-changing expression and then closing once more, but finally Sam started to rouse. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” said Dean as Sam's eyes fluttered open.

Sam smiled lazily, starting to stretch, then stopped abruptly and frowned. A small whimper filled the space between them and Dean's heart twisted with guilt; of course Sam would be sore today. Hell, he was pretty certain Sam would be sore for the next _couple days_. He made a mental note that they would stay off any jobs for the next week or two; they could score some quick cash from a hustle if need be, but Sam healing was the top priority as far as Dean was concerned.

“Is it...” Dean took a moment to clear his throat –  _only_  because it was early in the morning and his voice was rusty. “It is bad?”

Bless him, Sam actually smiled at Dean and shook his head. “Nah,” he whispered, “It's really not.”

Dean didn't believe him for one second. He had seen the damage he did last night in the dim light of the table lamp; Sam's thighs had been plastered in foul fluids, skin painted a myriad of colors that made Dean's stomach twist.

And Sam had  _slept_  like that.

If his face was anything to go by, Sam had come to that realization, too, and Dean felt even worse about the evening prior.

“Come on,” he said, tugging the blankets away from both of them and getting out of bed, “Let's get a shower. Then food?”

Sam nodded, relief evident in his features, and followed Dean into the bathroom.

Dean got there first, already having turned on the spray before Sam even got to the doorway – Sam was going to be moving slow today. Maybe Dean could just get the food to-go and bring it back to motel. He resolved to make sure Sam stayed immobile as much as possible for the rest of the day.

Checking the temperature and finding it just hot enough to withstand, he turned to Sam and reached out to pull the younger man's shirt off. Sam lifted his arms without hesitation and, as the shirt fell away to the floor, he leaned forward and kissed Dean. It took Dean by surprise, a soft noise escaping him before he could stop it, but then he closed his eyes and went with it, enjoying the feel of his brother's familiar lips against his own. Dean helped ease Sam's sweats off, letting the soiled material fall to the floor – he made another mental note to just throw them away, no use in washing something  _that_ nasty. Feeling the flakes and crumbs of dried spunk (and god only knew what  _else_ ) fall away with his fingers, a thrill of guilt and heartache ran through Dean. He almost wanted to cry thinking of how badly he had hurt his little brother. Whether Sam had asked for it or not, it didn't keep Dean from feeling bad.

“Come on,” said Dean as he pulled away from Sam's inviting mouth, “Let's get you cleaned up, hmm?” Sam nodded and, letting Dean lace their fingers together, followed the elder brother into the shower.

Sam shuddered under the spray, water sluicing down his back as he dipped his head underneath the shower head. Dean smiled gently, enjoying the look of ease on his brother's face. He let go of Sam's hand long enough to lay two towels down on the floor in front of the tub; his plan involved a lot of water getting everywhere.

“Dean?”

“Shhh,” he murmured, reaching out and pushing Sam's drenched hair back. Sam stared out at him with a helpless look, hazel eyes wide and wondering. The trust there made Dean's chest ache. All this time he and Sam had spent fighting and distrusting each other, second guessing each other's motives. Who would have thunk it that a little S&M was all they needed to patch things up? It almost seemed too simple... “It's okay,” he found himself saying to his brother, rubbing his thumb over his wrist in a calming movement, “I'll take care of you, Sam.”

And his brother, as always, believed him with every ounce of his being.

Dean told Sam to stay still and, reaching past him, angled the shower head down so the water just whisked past Sam's hip, keeping most of the spray on his knees. Dean stayed standing on the towels since there was so little room in the shower stall, it would have been a tight fit for both of them. Sam frowned, reaching a plaintive hand out toward him but Dean shook his head and smiled placatingly.

Lathering up the pathetic little bar of complimentary soap, Dean ran his hands over Sam's shoulders and chest and worked his way down his stomach, careful of the deep-purple bruises that had freshly blossomed across his hips. Dean rubbed at the thick muscle of Sam's arms, giving little pushes here and there to encourage Sam to turn or move a certain way; he worked his way from Sam's hands, over the corded muscle of his forearms and up into the thick flesh of his bicep, finishing finally on his shoulders. There were thick knots in the muscles across Sam's back and Dean worked at each one, taking a step over the tub to get himself right behind Sam and leaning his weight into each rub of his thumb. Sam had to brace himself against the tiled wall, Dean's work was so intense – but it worked. Dean smiled to himself with every relieved sigh that Sam let loose.

Finally, Sam's shoulders were smooth and loose beneath Dean's hands and, stepping out of the tub again, Dean grabbed the shower head and angled it back up to Sam's body. He watched the water fall over the lines and grooves of Sam's body and it took a great deal of willpower to keep himself from grabbing his brother up and devouring him. Sam moaned as the water flowed over him, not making Dean's cock any less interested. But as the water ran brick-red and burnt-brown down the drain, Dean swallowed back another thick wave of admonishing for himself. He had seriously  _hurt_  Sam last night. He had tried to be careful, tried to make sure things were done well and safely but there were still things that Dean hadn't gotten right. And how could he have? He'd never  _raped_  anybody before – especially not on purpose like that.

Sam sighed and started to lean to the side, head and shoulder tilting to lean against the tile, but he stopped just shy. Bright hazel eyes blinked open, water dripping in miniscule drops from his eyelashes, and questioned Dean silently.

“Of course, Sammy,” Dean said, as if there were any other answer to the question.

With another deep sigh, Sam leaned fully against the tile and enjoyed the warmth of the shower and the feel of Dean's hands still tracing patterns across his flesh. There was something beautiful in the way Sam bared himself to Dean like this, vulnerable and fragmented and needing to be taken care of. Dean loved it. It hurt to think he had done it to Sam, that he had hurt his baby brother like this, but it felt so good to be here, picking up the pieces of what he broke and fixing it. Sam gave him a purpose over and over again. Ever since Dad, Dean had felt so lost and without a direction but here was Sam, flaying himself down to his deepest, darkest, most-twisted core and asking for Dean's attention, for his anger and his acceptance. Dean sold his soul for Sam and yet, he was finding that there was still so much more for him to give, and a lot more for him to take – all of which Sam was readily willing to offer up for Dean's use.

As Dean rubbed his hands over the marks – all the scratches and the bites and the bruises, some he didn't remember making – from last night, the warmth that pooled in his gut wasn't sexual. It involved sex but it wasn't sexual in and of itself. Dean had a hard time putting his finger on the right word for it – no doubt, Sam had one, or two or three – but it made him feel oddly needed and protective. He wanted to destroy Sam only to rebuild him anew and  _better._ Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Sam would come forth fresh and alive in ways he hadn't been before. It made Dean proud of him, knowing Sam could endure so much and become something amazingly resilient. It made Dean feel  _right_ , knowing that he could help make something, make _someone_  a better person; it gave Dean a purpose in a world without any need for him otherwise.

Sam blinked through the water drops hanging from his eyelashes and dazedly stared at his brother. “Why don't you come in here with me?” He flapped a lazy hand at Dean, fingers twitching and asking for company.

Dean stared at his brother, still at a loss for words, but eventually conceded. He pulled the cheap, plastic curtain behind him and crowded up behind Sam, pressing their skin flush together, fingers woven tightly with one another next to Sam's thigh. Sam whispered a moan of contentment, nothing forward or wanton, just... happy, and Dean felt the same joy bubble up inside him. Sam had bled and broken last night, all to fulfill some twisted idea of intimacy, and Dean had made it all possible. Dean had caused the bruises on Sam's hips. He had bitten the marks on Sam's neck and arms. He had scratched the jagged lines into Sam's skin. Worst of all, still, he had abused his baby brother's body in ways that no one should ever have to endure and yet, Sam was still leaning back into Dean, inviting his older brother's warmth.

Dean pressed gentle kisses along Sam's neck, teasing just below the hair-line and against the soft spot behind his ears. Sam all but purred in response. Hands running over the dips and rises of Sam's hips and ribs, Dean licked at the drops of water beading along Sam's skin, sucking at the flesh with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“I'm so sorry, Sammy,” he whispered into Sam's soaked hair.

Sam reached up and cupped the side of Dean's face, staring down at the drain – water still tinged an uncomfortable dirty-pink – and shushed him. Dean didn't miss the sardonic smirk playing at the corner of Sam's lips.

“But I am,” Dean insisted, giving Sam a soft push to get him to turn around. “I know you asked me but still... I hurt you bad, Sam.” After a long pause, in which Sam just stare unnervingly at Dean, he added, “Those sheets will never be the same. I think the house keeping ladies will shit bricks.”

Sam chuckled, dipping his head in his usual act of shyness when he laughed.

Dean reached up and, with another gentle brush of his fingers, coaxed Sam's head up and titled it back, kissing him again. The water was hitting right against Sam's hair, leaking little rivulets down his face and Dean sucked the stray lines away from Sam's lips. He could feel Sam's cock, hot and heavy, against his thigh. His own erection evident between them.

Sam's hand wandered down, brushing against the tip of Dean's prick, but Dean batted his hand away – albeit with some reluctance. Giving his brother one last, long kiss, Dean pulled away and kissed his way along his chest and down his stomach, paying special attention to each bruise on Sam's hips. His hand brushed languidly over Sam's cock, teasing the tip and letting it bounce against the pads of his fingertips. Sam moaned loudly, putting one hand against the tile for stability and letting the other rest in Dean's short, wet spikes.

Each bruise earned itself one kiss, tongue darting out to lick the drops of water off them. Dean felt pride well up inside him as he studied the blossoms of color. It felt strange, pride mixing with the guilt, but he enjoyed the fact that Sam was here, in a motel shower with bruises and marks on his body that Dean had made and that only Dean would ever know of. No one else in the world knew Sam the way Dean did. No one else in the world would ever know that Dean had fucked Sam into a mattress last night in the roughest way possible (not imaginable, of course, because even Dean had to use lube – he didn't want to  _injure_  Sam, after all). No one would ever know that Sam had asked his older brother to act out a rape fantasy and force Sam into submission, fuck him hard and without mercy, making Sam take it whether he was comfortable or not. Dean had hurt Sam – the evidence was there on their bedsheets in a mess of stains and questionable colors – but only they would know.

“I'm so sorry,” Dean breathed over Sam's skin, “Forgive me.”

Sam took a shaky breath, fingers tightening in Dean's hair, as Dean pressed the flat of his tongue against the head of Sam's cock, sucking the tip into his soft mouth. A broken, desperate noise filled the shower stall as Sam tried not to buck his hips up into Dean's mouth.

With every kiss and lick and nip at Sam's cock, Dean begged forgiveness. Sam's knees bent and spread, legs inviting and asking Dean in, but Dean wasn't about to do anything more than get Sam off in his mouth. Last night had been too much. Even if Sam was happy, even if Sam wanted to do it again, Dean was going to take it easy for now. Sam needed to take it easy and Dean needed to take care of him. 

He ran his hand up the length of Sam's thigh and hip, gripping handfuls of Sam's ass, but not pressing into his crack or teasing his abused hole. The soft whimper Sam made when Dean grabbed him like that was enough to remind Dean of last night and all the damage he must have done. He was almost tempted to make Sam lie down on the bed after the shower and show him his hole; Dean might have been against the idea to begin with but, if he were truly honest with himself, Dean had really enjoyed it once he had gotten going. There was something about making Sam  _take it_ , whether he wanted to or not. Sam had been there on the bed, barely ready, and Dean had just shoved right in and made Sam take his cock. It revolted Dean, left him feeling dirty in a way that couldn't be cleaned, to know that he had actually gotten off on the idea of raping his little brother, of forcing himself onto Sam like that.

So it seemed fitting that, as Dean took more and more of Sam in, tongue pressing up against the seam of his cock and sucking the tip down his throat, he had to fight back his gag reflex. It was almost a forced sort of self-flagellation, a penance for making Sam suffer like that last night. It was a way for Dean to make up for how twisted he was inside.

Sam made little choked needful noises, biting at his lip in an adorably desperate plea for more. Dean pulled one hand away from Sam's ass and cupped his balls, rolling them between his fingers and tugging gently. They were heavy in Dean's hand, the need to get off evident in their weight and in Sam's soft, little tells.

Pulling off Sam's length, grunting through the need to gag, Dean stared up at his baby brother and smiled. He kissed at the tip, mouthing at it like he would a popsicle, and let his hands work Sam's cock and balls as he murmured little words of encouragement and pleas for forgiveness into Sam's skin.

“I'm so sorry, Sam,” he whispered, only just loud enough to be heard over the steady stream of the shower, “I didn't mean to hurt you so badly. Forgive me? Please? I... I want you to be happy, Sam, but I don't want to...” He almost said he didn't want to hurt him but he knew Sam would only scoff at it. The truth was Dean didn't want to break Sam for good. Sam could be broken, but Dean would always put him back together; it's just how this new thing between them worked. But Dean's fear was that one time, he would go too far and then Sam wouldn't be fixable and it would be Dean's fault.

“D-Dean.” Sam's voice was ragged. He reached down, hand gripping Dean's chin and titling it up toward him. Dean had to squint against the mist of water fighting its way past Sam's shoulders. Sam looked so beautiful from Dean's kneeling position in front of him: hair tangled and soaked, sticking to his face in little, flat curls; eyelids dusted with droplets like dew on grass in the mornings; the dim light of the room made the mist swirl in crazy, kalidescope patterns around Sam's head, his hazel eyes dark but glimmering in the dimness; his skin was mottled with bruises and marks but still a beautiful tan that Dean had never been able to mimic. He was a work of art, Dean's brother, and no one else in the world would see him like this.

“Hmm?”

Sam smiled softly, almost fondly, and said, “You have to trust me.”

Dean stared at Sam, confused. Dean was the one who had fucked Sam with practically no prep and almost-dry. Dean was the one who had pressed these dark spots into his marble-like complexion. Dean was the one who wielded the power, the control, the  _ability to harm._ What was there possibly that Dean would have to trust Sam with?

“I'm not glass,” Sam whispered, eyes half-lidded and head tilted to the side. He looked like a bemused parent and, for a moment, it made Dean want to smack him.

“But--”

“No,” Sam said, pressing his fingers to Dean's lips and shuddering as his brother took them into his mouth. “Ah – fuck, Dean. You – you have to trust me when I say I can handle something. You have to believe in me, okay? I trust you. So trust me, too... Uh – oh, god, please, Dean.” Sam moaned, hips rolling and cock bobbing in front of Dean's face. With one last flick of his tongue, Dean let go of Sam's fingers and moved back to his cock, sucking the tip down and working his spit over the shaft of it with his hand, keeping mouth and fingers tight together as he moved his lips.

Sam dissolved into a litany of curses and whispered pleas, begging and forgiving Dean without ever actually saying the words. With a hitch of his breath and a strangled cry, Sam came. Dean swallowed as much as he could, too much of Sam's spunk spilling over his tongue and out the corners of his lips. He let Sam fuck into the supple heat of his mouth for a moment before pulling away, come dribbling over his lips as he panted, staring up at his little brother.

With a wrecked huff of breath, Sam collapsed back against the wall of the shower, chest heaving with breath. A soft mewl of thanks told Dean that Sam appreciated it and still sought to remind Dean that he was always grateful for whatever his dom allowed him to have; especially such a treat as  _that_. Sam didn't even have to work for that one, but Dean had been happy to give it. Hell, Dean had felt  _obligated_  to let Sam take that from him. It felt good to give Sam something like that, a present that fell far short of what Sam deserved.

Dean stood slowly, licking at the left-overs of Sam's come that spattered across his face. Sam moaned softly, watching Dean watching him from under drooping eyelids. With a smile, Dean reached over and kissed Sam before turning him into the spray and washing them both once more. Sam hissed and winced when Dean's soapy hand brushed along the crack of his ass but, with a little hush and another couple kisses to his neck, Dean managed to make Sam relax. He just explored along the surface, pressing his fingers into the fold of flesh but no further, making sure nothing was terribly damaged. Sam let his forehead rest against Dean's shoulder, rocking back and forth on weary feet.

He must have been tired. The heat was taking it out of Dean, too, and didn't have any of the healing that Sam had to do.

With one last rinse – the water had finally started to run cold and it made gooseflesh prickle along their limbs – Dean coaxed Sam out of the stall and wrapped him up in the only towel left. The floor was soaked from Dean having left the curtain open beforehand, but they barely noticed. Sam was too busy leaning on Dean and Dean was too busy trying to towel Sam off as much as he could. He used the damp towel to get the worst of the water off himself before wrapping it around Sam's shoulders and leading him to their bed. Sam collapsed, face-down, on top of the less-disgusting mattress, towel billowing out around him.

Dean smiled and sat down next to him. He played with a few strands of Sam's hair before leaning down and whispering into his ear, “I'm going to go get some clean sheets and breakfast, okay? Just get some sleep.” He almost added  _babe_ , but knew even Sam would have to give him a hard time for that one. So he left it with a chaste kiss to Sam's cheek. Sam barely mumbled a reply.

Dean reached out as he stood and pulled the edge of the comforter over Sam's body to keep him warm and left the room. He still felt he should be apologizing to Sam, and the sight of the crusty, soiled sheets on the other bed made his chest hurt again, but Sam's words from the shower still echoed through his mind, louder than his own self-recriminations.

_You have to trust me._

Dean was the one in control here. He was the one who forced Sam to yield, not the other way around, and yet Sam wanted Dean to trust him?

With one last look over his shoulder, Dean watched Sam falling asleep on the bed, cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower into a ruddy hue, blush of orgasm slowly fading from his neck. Dean's eyes narrowed on the sliver of Sam's hip that shown where the blanket didn't drape far enough and he could count each individual fingertip-shaped bruise. But Sam was still here and still in one piece and he was still looking to Dean as though Dean could hold Sam's very life in his hands and Sam would have unwavering trust in his brother. Maybe Sam deserved just as much faith.

It didn't make sense, but it felt right, and that was good enough for Dean.


End file.
